


make it all work

by AliuIce0814, LittleBird20



Series: Frank Castle's SHIELDverse [4]
Category: Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Catholic Frank Castle, Domme/sub, F/M, Masturbation, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Panties, Pining, Porn with Feelings, SHIELD Is A Porn Studio, Semi-public masturbation, She Who Must Be Obeyed 'verse, frank in panties, porn stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 10:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliuIce0814/pseuds/AliuIce0814, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBird20/pseuds/LittleBird20
Summary: How's Frank supposed to jack off when Clint's taking pictures?Well, Natasha has a suggestion.





	make it all work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Not_You](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Do You Kiss On The Fifth Date?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907577) by [Not_You](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You). 



> True love is writing Frank porn with your wife. 
> 
> This story comes between "wanna hear a true story" and Not_You's "Do You Kiss On The Fifth Date?" Frank and Joan aren't together yet, but they're dancing around it and being disgustingly adorable.

         Frank paces back and forth in the break room, sweat blooming between his shoulder blades even though the air conditioning is running full blast over his mostly-naked skin. He raises a hand to run it through his hair but quickly puts it back down when he realizes he’s shaking.

 _Stupid,_ he thinks, clenching his hands into fists. _Just get over yourself and do your damn job._

          But thinking about going back out there, facing Tasha and Clint, when he’s not quite exactly ready, is just too fucking much.

          He sits down heavily on the couch and puts his head in his hands. It’s not like this is usually a problem for him. Even thinking back on his first shoot here, when he barely knew what he was doing, he was able to get hard without even a second thought.

          And maybe that’s his problem now, that he’s thinking too much about it. But to spring something like that on him last minute...

          He groans.

          “Are you ever coming back?” a voice calls from the doorway.

          Frank is tempted to tell Natasha to “fuck off,” but he holds his tongue because he knows better than that. Instead, he shakes his head. “Nope,” he mumbles. “Can’t do it.” His cheeks must be the same shade as Tasha’s lipstick by now.

          Her heels click on the floor as she comes and crouches next to him. She tilts his chin up with painted nails. “Why?” Her voice is light, curious. “Because Clint is there instead of the usually photographer? Because we asked you to touch yourself?” Natasha smiles sweetly. “Because you’re wearing panties?”  Frank glares at her and opens his mouth to bark out an answer. But she snaps his jaw closed. “Think carefully about your answer, pet.”

         Frank sighs but then grumbles, “All of the above.”

         Natasha grins. “Would you like a little help?”

         Frank didn’t think it was possible for him to blush more, but there he goes. He just stares at her instead of answering until she rolls her eyes and stands back up.

         “Well, if you don’t want my help...why don’t you think about that little girlfriend of yours?”

          An animal kind of sound rolls out of Frank's throat. "She's not my girlfriend." Joan isn't. Frank's loyal to Maria. He might not have his ring, but he's loyal.

          Natasha grabs his chin and digs in her talons. "Let yourself feel things. It'll help." She releases him and puts her hands on her hips, eyebrows arched. "You think about her anyway. I can see it every time someone says her name."

           Frank's heart thunders in his ears. The problem is that Natasha isn't wrong. Frank thinks about Joan all the time. When he's at work, he's worrying about her job. When he's at home, he's worrying about if the security system he built for her will hold. And when he's in her apartment, it's all he can do to not fall to his knees in front of her. Joan's made a goddamn wreck of him.

           "You don't have to think about her if it really offends you," Natasha says. Her voice is gentler now, though her stance hasn't changed. "But if you don't have any moral qualms, if you're just afraid--I don't think you would have made it very far in the Marines being a coward. So." Natasha tilts her head. "Consider it, Frank. I'll see you onstage in five minutes."

           Natasha doesn't give Frank a chance to respond before she leaves the room. He heaves in a breath. He feels ridiculous, bound in lace, getting ready to jack off in front of his coworkers. He's got no qualms about masturbating in general--being in the Marines destroyed any moral concerns seminary school gave him--but doing it around people....doing it while thinking of Joan...that feels a little like a violation.

            Joan. Tiny Joan with her thin fingers squeezing Frank's hand when she sees him after work. Joan calling him "sweet boy" when he does her a favor. Joan's giggle, her cotton candy perfume, the subtle shape of her breasts beneath her sensible shirts. How light she would be if he lifted her in his arms. How easy it would be to carry her. How soft her mouth--Jesus Christ. Frank runs a hand over his cropped-short hair. His entire body burns when he realizes that he's half-hard just from thinking about Joan existing.

            Coward, Natasha says in the back of his head. Frank grits his teeth. He slips his hand into his panties and squeezes his dick once. He lets go and groans. "Fine," he snarls to the empty room. He stands up and pushes his way through the door and into the sound stage. "Fine," he growls at Natasha, who's sitting cross-legged in a chair on the stage, waiting for him. "I'm ready."

             Natasha grins as she unfolds her legs and stands up. “Good,” she purrs as she looks him up and down. Frank refuses to give her the satisfaction of flinching, but he does swallow audibly. He also thanks whatever lucky stars he still has that Clint is being unusually quiet behind the camera.

            The concept for the shoot is simple enough. Not something Frank would’ve thought twice about had he seen it on the schedule. But to see his own name next to it...that’s a different story. There’s a bit more theatrics to it than he’s used to. His regular job involves fetish gear and someone manning a camera to take exposing and - supposedly - sexy pictures.

            But this is a whole different story. Clint is manning an overly complicated and imposing still camera that somehow takes pictures of its subjects in action that show up crystal clear and not blurry.

           And he has to touch himself. Not in the silent, no-nonsense, efficient way he did in the Marines. Not in the detached way he sometimes did in those intermittent years in between. Not even in the indulgent, sweat-soaked, sticky sweet way he once upon a time did for Maria.

           No, this is for show. Something fueled by pure, one-sided lust.

           And Frank really needs to stop thinking before he loses what little confidence he gained in the break room.

            He stomps up the two steps to the raised stage. “Where do you want me?” he asks.

            Natasha taps the sharp toe of her blood-red shoe against the stage in front of her. "Kneel right here." Frank drops heavily to his knees in front of her. He makes a point to scowl up at her. "None of that," Natasha says. "Go on, boy. Get started. I'll step out of your way."

           Frank's softer than he was in the break room. Dammit. He shuts his eyes as Natasha's heels click away. _Joan,_ he thinks. His pulse flutters in his neck. He shouldn't be thinking of her like this. But doesn't she bake every single meal for him even though he's never asked her to? Doesn't she call him "sweetheart" and "darling?" She writes him love notes, that's what those are, and she makes sure he goes to bed even when he doesn't want to sleep. It's the same kind of song-and-dance he and Maria did years ago in Afghanistan.

           And--only Natasha knows Frank's thinking of Joan. No one else will guess.

           Joan's sweet perfume. How soft her hands are in his. How soft the skin beneath her shirt must be. His hands are broad enough to circle her waist completely. Her mouth probably tastes sweet, too. He won't push her, though; he'll let his lips part so she can lick her way into his mouth.

           Frank slides his hand into his panties and wraps his fingers around his dick. He's hard. He wets his lips.

           Joan would ask him to carry her to bed. No, not ask, tell--he wants to follow orders. He wants to be good. 'Carry me to bed,' Joan would say, and Frank would sweep her into his arms. Jesus, she would be light, small enough to worry him, but her little nips at his mouth and neck would distract him from that as he carried her to the bedroom.

          Natasha’s voice breaks into his thoughts. “Come on, boy. This is supposed to be a show.”

          Frank’s hand stills on his cock. He had almost forgotten why he was doing this. But now his thoughts switch over to guard mode as he hears Clint rapidly clicking away on the camera, the hum of the air conditioning, and the swish of fabric as Natasha steps closer to him.

           He opens his eyes to glare at her. This is hard enough without her input. She scoffs and gives him a little half-smile as she reaches over and grabs a fistful of his hair. She slowly yanks as she leans down to whisper in his ear, “Keep going. Whatever you were thinking about was working.”

           Natasha straightens up but keeps her hand where it is. Frank leans into her touch without thinking, using the pain to fuel whatever this is. He takes a deep breath and starts moving his hand over his cock again, nudging his thoughts back to Joan. She really is so tiny, almost birdlike. He would carry her around anywhere she asked. He would bend to her wishes far easier than he’s ever bent to Natasha’s.

           Frank looks up, past Natasha, until he's not really seeing her at all. Joan could pin him to the bed with just a look, but maybe she would tie him down anyway, just to be safe. Frank swipes his thumb over the head of his dick, shuddering. Joan would call him a good boy as long as he laid still. Maybe she would let him kiss her breasts if he was very good. Maybe she would let him suck her nipples.

           Frank pulls his dick in one long, slow stroke. "Good boy," Natasha purrs. Frank pretends it's Joan's voice he's hearing. She wouldn't make him wear lacy panties like this, except maybe she would. Maybe she would train him to like it. Fuck. Frank shudders again. "Keep going," Natasha urges.

           Frank runs his free hand up his torso to his nipples and tugs. But that's not quite right. Joan would be gentler. Frank softens his touch. His huge, blunt fingers are nothing like Joan's, but he touches himself so lightly that, looking up the way he is, he can pretend she's got her hands on him. His back arches. "Fuck," he groans.

          "Shh." Natasha pushes two of her fingers between his lax lips. Frank sucks instinctively, running his tongue across them and tasting the salt of her sweat. Joan doesn't have nails like Natasha's, but they both have slender fingers.

           "Sweet boy," Joan would say. "Do you want to taste me?"

           Frank's moan is muffled by Natasha's fingers. He squeezes his cock, fingers twisting his nipples. "Yes, Miss," he would gasp to Joan. "Please, Miss, please." Maybe she could ride his face, he wouldn't mind that, but what he really wants is to crawl between her thighs and press his tongue into her cunt. She would taste salty, rich, bracketing him with her thighs and holding him down with both hands. Frank would rut against the mattress, whining like he is around Natasha's fingers. Maybe he'd even come like that, crying out against Joan's clit. Just taking care of her would be enough.

           Natasha pulls her fingers out of Frank's mouth. He whines and makes eye contact with her. He can't get a deep breath in. “Good boy,” she soothes. “Pull down your panties. Touch your balls.”

            Natasha’s voice is huskier than Joan’s, but Frank’s so far gone that it’s hard to tell the difference. He pushes his panties down his thighs and softly touches his balls. He shudders, mouth falling open, still trying to suck on Joan’s—Natasha’s—fingers. His whole body thrums with tension as he rolls his balls in his palm. He wants Joan’s gentle touch there, _oh Miss please,_ she would know how to be so tender that he melts in her hands. She’ll just stroke his balls, feather-light, until he’s thrashing and gasping. He’ll beg if that’s what she wants. What does she want?

            “Please,” Frank says. His toes curl. He looks up at Natasha with sweat-blurred eyes. “Please.”

            Natasha’s nails scratch his head. “Just a little longer, boy.”

            Frank’s breath hitches. Waiting ‘just a little longer’ feels more and more impossible by the second. He runs his hands over his chest, but that’s not enough, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to stroke his dick without being told. “Please,” he says again. His voice cracks. His face burns.

            “You’ll be good?” Natasha asks. Frank swallows. Joan wouldn’t ask. She would tell him, “Be good for me, sweet boy.” He knows she would. He nods, lurching toward Natasha, begging for contact with every straining inch of his body. “All right, boy,” Natasha says. She steps away from Frank. He keens, but she stands just out of his reach. “Go on. Get yourself off. Make it pretty.”

            Frank moans the second he wraps his hand around his dick. “You’re so pretty, sweet boy,” Joan would say. Frank would burn with embarrassment because he’s a huge beast of a man, but he wouldn’t argue because he could never argue with Joan. Her little fingers would pet his hair, settling it into place, soothing as she would say, “Go on, sweetheart. Go ahead and come for me.” Frank’s eyes fall shut. He pants, pulling his dick, not hearing the air conditioning or the camera’s shutter or anything but Joan’s gentle voice in his mind, repeating _good boy_ as his balls pull tight and his back arches.

            “Miss, Miss, Miss,” he pleads—

            Then he’s coming, white streaks of it hitting his chest and the black stage floor in front of him. It pulls a series of sobbing moans from him. He drops his dick as he shudders through the aftershocks.

            A warm blanket covers Frank’s trembling shoulders. “Shh,” Natasha’s low voice soothes. “Good. Good boy. Open your mouth.” Frank’s lips part. There’s the click of a water bottle being opened, and then blissfully cool water slips into Frank’s mouth. He swallows instinctively until he has to pull back to breathe. When he opens his eyes, Natasha’s crouched in front of him, carefully avoiding the streaks of his cum. She’s holding a pack of wet wipes in her latex glove-covered hands. “Hi there,” she says, smiling. Frank blinks at her. He’s aware, faintly, that he has still has now-tattered panties clinging to his thighs. He’s aware, sort of, that Clint is probably still watching. But his mind’s surrounded by the soft flannel layer that Natasha calls subspace. When Natasha says, “I’m going to clean you now,” he nods his heavy head.

            Natasha cleans him quickly, ignoring how his breath hitches when the cold wipes touch his overheated chest. She tosses the used wipes in a trash bag and then strips off the gloves, first one balled up, the second one inside-out, the way Frank was taught in first aid training. Once she’s thrown them away, she loses the clinical air and pulls Frank into her strong grip. “Good,” she whispers, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “See, boy? See what happens when you let go?”

            Frank grumbles wordlessly. The cold touch to his chest pulled him up out of subspace a little, so now he’s hyperaware of how ridiculous he must look. “I’m cold,” he grouses.

            Natasha flicks his ear and then lets him go. “Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Go put on your sweats. Fifteen minutes for clean-up, and then I want you in the office to look at the photos. Understand?”

            Frank heaves a breath, scowling at her. “Yes, ma’am.” He doesn’t stop glaring at her, but he does let her help him to his feet. When he tries to go to the break room, Natasha keeps a tight grip on his hand. “What?” Frank snaps.

            “You’d better ask her.” Natasha’s smile is all teeth. “Unless you’re still a coward after all that.”

            Frank jerks his arm out of her grasp. He doesn’t say a damn thing on his way to the break room. But it doesn’t matter. His blush-red ears speak for him.

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY HOLIDAYS, FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS.


End file.
